Author's note: Hello, long time no see everybody! I'm so sorry it's been forever but I made sure this chapter was extra long. Chapter 15 is finally here and Chapter 16 is in the works. This was probably one of my favorites to write. Hope you like it!

Warnings: Blood, violence, and some language. Since this story is a Batman crossover, it is going to come up sometimes, but I wanted to give you a fair warning in advance.

Bruce sat in his armchair facing the window and watched the sun peek out from behind Gotham's skyline. Sometimes when he couldn't sleep, he would close his eyes and imagine the city in his head. Not the crime-ridden alleys or dangerous corners, but the thing that really made the city great, the people. Going about their daily lives regardless of what hardships the city might face.

As the Batman, he never really got to appreciate the beauty of the city his parents tried so hard to preserve. Seeing Gotham from his armchair, quiet and peaceful, usually brought a certain calmness to the thoughts warring in his head. But not tonight.

There was a tightness in his chest as his mind wandered to his recently resurrected son, sleeping in the bedroom a few doors down. Bruce couldn't have been happier to have Jason back. Alive and breathing like nothing had ever happened. Though from his years of experience, he knew things like this never came without a price. And he couldn't shake the feeling that it was going to blindside them soon.

He heard the door to his bedroom open. Alfred walked in carrying a tray with a steaming cup of coffee. If he was surprised to see him up so early, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he greeted him with the usual, "Good morning, Master Bruce."

"Alfred," he responded without turning from the window.

"You're in a cheery mood today, sir." Alfred set the cup on the table. "I think this qualifies, as Master Richard likes to put it, as brooding."

"Hm."

Alfred clasped his hands behind his back and raised a single eyebrow. "I see we're not using our words either. I did not want to bother you so early, sir, but everyone is getting ready to have breakfast downstairs. The invitation was also extended to you, of course."

"Tell them I'll be down in a minute." Bruce stood up from his armchair and walked over to his nightstand where he left his phone. "I have to make a call."

"As you wish," Alfred said with a slight frown. There was a moment of silence between them. It was evident by the deep creases in his forehead that Alfred wanted to say more, possibly broach the subject of Jason, but he shook his head and exited the bedroom.

Bruce hated shutting him out like that, but there were some things that he couldn't discuss with Alfred just yet, things that he wouldn't understand. Like his suspicions about Jason.

He dialed the number on his phone. It was early in Central City, and Bruce knew there was a chance the resident speedster might not pick up. But he needed to get this done, at least to give himself a little peace of mind.

Barry picked up on the first ring. " Hello, Barry Allen speaking."

"Barry, it's Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce? I-how did you get my number? Wait, nevermind. Of course you have my number. What did you need?"

Bruce got straight to the point. "I need a full DNA analysis of a sample. I need it compared to the one I have on file."

Barry was a forensic scientist. If there were any anomalies in Jason's DNA, he would be able to find it. Or at least find someone who could.

"Just a DNA analysis. Sounds simple enough. Is...is there a reason you're asking me? I mean there are other people who are more qualified than I am."

"The DNA sample. It's from someone in the family."

" Oh." Barry seemed to finally understand the gravity of what he was asking.

"I hope I can rely on your discretion in the matter."

There was a reason he kept their DNA a secret. In the wrong hands, it was dangerous information.

"No, yeah. I totally understand. You can trust me. Send me the samples here. "

"Thank you, Barry. If you find anything-"

"-I'll let you know. "

"Goodbye, Barry."

"Bye, Bruce."

Bruce hung up the phone. While Alfred and him had agreed to wait for answers, he couldn't help but think he was walking into another Superboy situation. It would help explain the amnesia and why he'd only just shown up after three years.

Breakfast would be his chance to observe Jason. To see if it wasn't all a ruse.

He got dressed and then made his way to the dining room, where the first smell to hit his nose was of pancakes and bacon.

Dick saw him first and stood up, clapping his hands in a dramatic fashion. "Wow, now that is an achievement. Bruce Wayne up before noon. The world must be ending."

Jason was sitting next to him and put down his fork slowly. "Did we not usually have breakfast?"

Bruce shot Dick a glare. "Not usually. I usually...work late."

He observed Jason's reaction. There was no recognition, just genuine curiosity.

"What do you do?" Jason asked.

He heard Tim choke on his water. "I'm sorry, drank too fast," he said after he finished coughing.

Bruce took his seat at the head of the table, "I'm the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. I manage the company and oversee all of our divisions."

"Is it that big tower in the center of the city? I think I saw it on my way here."

Bruce rested his elbows on the table, hands folded under his chin. "And what brought you here to the manor?"

Jason got a thoughtful look on his face. "I don't know… a couple days ago I had the sudden urge to start walking. It was like my body was telling me there was somewhere I needed to be. So I started walking, and eventually my feet took me here…home."

"A sudden urge?" Resurfacing memories threw his Superboy theory out the window. Clones copied physiology, but other than that, they were clean slates of the people they were trying to imitate.

"Bruce, is this really necessary?" Dick asked, slamming his cup on the table. "He's been here only a night and you're already interrogating him."

"It's fine, Dick. I get it. You know, I showed up out of nowhere. I don't remember any of you or anything else for that matter." Jason met his eyes. "And I'm sorry I can't give you any answers to where I've been. But I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just want to figure all this out, too."

Bruce clenched his jaw. The Jason sitting in front of him seemed so different from the Jason he remembered. The old Jason would have bristled at his probing questions, but this Jason had a calm and collected demeanor that rivaled his own. Dick also seemed surprised by this change as he gaped wordlessly at him and then at Jason.

"I know, and we'll help you. Dick, you said you were taking the day off?"

"Y-yeah. I was hoping to show Jason some of our old haunts. See if it brought back any memories." Dick nudged Jason's shoulder playfully. "It'll be fun. I promise."

Bruce looked over at Tim, who was hunched over his plate and picking at his food with his fork. "Why don't you tag along, Tim?"

Tim's eyes shot up, alarmed. "Actually-"

"Do you have something else to do?" Bruce asked, making sure his tone conveyed that it wasn't up for discussion. He wanted Tim to be there, in case things went south.

"Nevermind," Tim muttered. "I'd love to go."

"Good. I'll be working late again tonight. So don't wait up."

"I already told you I don't know how I did it," Stiles said, crossing his arms over his chest.

They were at the football field behind Gotham Academy. It was the weekend, so no one was around. Scott and Derek were sitting on the bleachers while he stood there trying to recreate whatever he had done in the corner store bathroom.

"You're not trying hard enough."

Derek got up from the bleachers and onto the field. "You said last time your powers showed up you were being attacked." His eyes flashed blue. "Then we're just going to have to fight."

Stiles backed up as Derek came charging at him, "Whoa, Derek wait-!"

Derek's body hit him full force, and they were both thrown to the ground. "Come on, Stilinski. Fight me!"

Their hands were locked together. Derek pushed down with enough force to snap his arms, and Stiles winced as his elbows dug into the grass. He kneed Derek in the stomach as hard as he could, relishing in the shock that crossed the werewolf's face, and flipped him over in one swift motion. With a sly grin, he said, "You were saying."

Derek shoved him roughly aside. "We had to try something. I didn't see anyone else suggesting anything."

"Maybe there's another reason your powers aren't working," Scott said, giving him a hand up. "Is there a chance," he began, looking slightly uncomfortable at what he was going to suggest, "that this is a mental thing? Like when we were in the fifth grade and you couldn't swim because you were afraid you'd drown."

At Derek's amused snort, Stiles waved his hand dismissively. "No it's not."

"I mean, we know it's there. We've tried everything else. What if what's stopping you, is you?"

"Thanks, Scott. So it's my fault now?"

"You know that's not what I meant." Scott sighed and sat on the bleachers. "I'm just saying, it's a possibility."

Stiles bit his lip. "Fine, if it is me, how do I get past it? I don't even know what it is."

"That, I don't know."

A silence settled over them as they thought of what to do next. Stiles paced back and forth on his claimed patch of grass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derek sitting cross-legged on the ground, staring straight ahead. He was extending and retracting his claws in a way that reminded him of his own habit of tapping his fingers on the table when he was deep in thought.

Then, he suddenly stopped and looked at his extended claws with newfound interest.

"What?" Stiles asked.

"I think there might be something we can try. I've only done it once and really it was Peter who did it-"

"And we should trust your crazy, murderous, uncle-"

"It works. Trust me." Derek stood up and clenched his fist. "An alpha can use their claws to enter the mind of someone else, access their memories, or wipe them completely away. Scott can guide you through yours, see whatever's holding you back."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" Scott asked.

"Because there's risks. The ritual involves putting your claws into the base of his skull. You have to do it right or else you could end up paralyzing him. Or worse, killing him."

"What! I don't want to kill him!"

Stiles raised his hand in the air, "I second that."

"I can walk you through it, so you don't hurt him. But only if Stiles agrees." Derek turned to him. "What do you want to do?"

He didn't like the idea of going into his mind, especially if it meant Scott would be there. There's no telling what they'd find, and as much as he loved Scott, there were things that he wasn't ready to tell him just yet. Then there was the off chance that he could die .

But he needed to know what this was. Where it came from. How to control it. This thing inside of him was destructive; the corner store bathroom was clear evidence of that. If he didn't figure it out soon, he could end up doing something he might regret.

"Let's do it," he said with a nod.

"Stiles…" Scott pleaded, giving him his best puppy-dog eyes.

"I trust you, buddy. You haven't let me down yet."

Scott screwed his eyes shut and let out a frustrated sigh. "Okay. But at the first sign of trouble, I'm ending it."

"Alright, Derek, how do we do this?"

"You should probably be sitting down," Derek said. Stiles sat next to Scott with his back towards him. Derek then took Scott's hand and brought it up to Stiles' neck. "You're going to extend your claws right here. When you go in, I'll be monitoring the both of you from out here. This is your last chance to back out."

Stiles closed his eyes. "Just do it."

Scott's fingers brushed against his neck, making him tense his body. Stiles waited for the painful knives to pierce his skin, but they never did.

"We're here."

Stiles opened his eyes. They weren't in the football field anymore. He and Scott were standing in his old bedroom back in Beacon Hills, before it was packed away in moving boxes. Everything was exactly like he remembered, from the band posters covering his walls to the plastic skull that he kept on his desk (which he may or may not have stolen from the biology teacher).

A smile crossed his face as he caught sight of the telescope by the window. He walked across the room and let his fingers brush against the cool metal. His dad had given it to him for his fourteenth birthday after he refused to shut up about astronomy for three weeks straight. It had been one of his most prized possessions.

"We're home."

Scott flipped through one of the books on his desk. "Not really. I don't think. Look at this."

Stiles took the book from him and looked down at the page. For a moment he thought his brain had short circuited- the words were jumbled, almost like the book was written in another language.

"It worked. We're inside my mind."

"Your mind is your bedroom?" Scott asked incredulously.

"No, I think I brought us here." He picked up the picture frame off his headboard. It was his mom and dad, hugging and happy. "Because it was safe."

"So, how do we find what's blocking you? Knowing you, it's probably an actual wall."

"Haha, very funny." Stiles caught sight of something blue underneath the floorboards. It extended towards his bedroom door. "I guess we follow the yellow-brick road, Dorothy. Or 'blue' road."

He took the lead, opening the door and stepping through it. The hallway was much wider than the one in his old house, lit by overhead ceiling lights, and lined by photos and plaques on the wall to his right. He'd walked this hallway almost every day since he was ten on the way to his dad's office in the sheriff's station.

It was also the source of many of his nightmares.

"I don't know what you're going to see in there, but I'm gonna say sorry in advance."

"What are you talking about?" Scott asked, looking around. "This is the sheriff's station."

"Exactly. It's the sheriff's station, the day Matt attacked."

"Why are w-"

Stiles covered Scott's mouth with his hand. " Shh."

"Why are we here?" Scott asked in a harsh whisper.

"I don't know." Stiles took careful steps toward the end of the hallway. As they turned the corner, a sharp, metallic smell reached his nose. Blood. He knew what came next. Stiles put a sleeve to his nose and fought the urge to gag when the bodies of the three deputies came into view.

Deputy Evans was slumped against the wall, his eyes open but lifeless as they stared at the floor. Deputy Mills was next to him; she had one hand on her gun and the other pressed against the deep claw marks on her throat. Then there was Deputy Rodriguez who was lying in a pool of his own blood.

Stiles turned his head away from the gruesome sight as he was hit with a pang of sadness. He had always considered the deputies family. They had watched him grow up and often indulged his antics around the station while he waited for his dad to get off his shift. Now they were gone and nothing was going to change that.

"Stiles?" Scott put a hand on his shoulder.

Stiles shrugged his hand off. "I'm fine."

Before they could continue, the sound of nails scratching against the ceiling stopped them both in their tracks. Stiles craned his neck up, freezing when he saw the yellow, slitted eyes of the kanima. Jackson was partially shifted, green scales running down one side of his face and his jagged teeth bared at them menacingly.

Stiles backed away slowly, pulling Scott along by his sleeve. "Jackson, how's it going? Long time no see."

"He can't hurt us, right?" Scott asked without taking his eyes off Jackson. "This is all in your head."

Jackson dropped down from the ceiling landing on all fours. A low growl escaped his throat.

"I don't want to stick around long enough to find out." Stiles looked around the hallway for something he could use against Jackson but came up empty. Normal weapons had no effect on kanimas and his mind didn't think it was convenient enough to give him any wolfsbane. Only one option left, "I know you can't help being an asshole, Jackson, but could you please not kill us."

Jackson responded by slashing his claws in Stiles's direction. "So I'll take that as a no. Scott, run!"

Stiles turned on his heel and sprinted down the hallway. He could hear Scott's footfalls following closely behind him along with the heavy thuds of the kanima as it chased after them. His heart was beating rapidly against his chest as he looked for a door to open. They were going to be mince meat if they didn't get out of this nightmare soon. Nope. Nope. Nope-aha!

Stiles saw a blue glow underneath the door of the janitor's closet. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, shoving himself and Scott through the doorway before closing it shut again. The door buckled as Jackson's weight slammed into it, but to Stiles's relief, it didn't budge. He heard angry, growling from the other side, although it seemed to die down after a couple seconds. Jackson must have lost interest in them. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. Thank god.

"Alright, Scott. I think I want to go now."

When Scott didn't answer, he turned around to see where they had ended up. Just as luck would have it, it was the last place he wanted to be -Mooney's- and Scott was no longer with him. In fact, no one was actually in the nightclub with him.

"Scott, where'd you go, buddy?" Stiles called out. He checked all of the booths and even behind the bar for his friend despite the idea that Scott was hiding from him was ridiculous.

"Okay, so Scott's gone," he finally admitted to himself. Stiles sat on one of the bar stools, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

He had no idea why he thought this was a good idea. His mind had always been fucked up, and now Scott was missing and he was alone in his own personal hell. He could only hope that Derek had a way to bring them back.

His head snapped upwards when the heavy creaking of a door reverberated throughout the room. Stiles turned slowly in his bar stool and he felt his blood run cold when he realized where it was coming from.

The door to the alley was slightly ajar. Blue light escaped from the gap, bright and foreboding at the same time. He flinched when a pop came from behind the door. And then the dreaded, second one.

His feet acted as if they had a will of their own, racing out into the alley. He looked to his left and saw a body lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Ben.

Stiles dropped to his knees next to him. Carefully, he flipped Ben over so he was on his back. His eyes were glassy and there was blood dripping from the corners of his lips.

"I'm so sorry, Ben. I was stupid, so stupid. I wish I could take it back...but I can't. You're not even real so I don't know why I'm saying all this-"

A hand suddenly grabbed his wrist. To Stiles's horror, Ben jolted upwards, the bartender's face coming within inches of his own. His cold, dead eyes turned to him full of fury.

"You did this to me!"

Stiles tried to pull his wrist away from Ben, but his grip was rock solid. "No! Mooney killed you!"

"Look again!" Ben lifted his shirt, revealing a large burn on his chest where there should have been bullet holes. The flesh was torn and blackened, leaving Stiles gaping at the wound in shock.

"I didn't," Stiles began but stopped when he felt a familiar burning sensation across the skin of his palms. Then his hands lit up that same blue, otherworldly light that he had been seeing since he got there. Stiles gasped at the intensity of the light. It was like someone had taken the sun, shrunk it down, and placed it in his hands.

"You think you're so different from those gangbangers and mobsters but you're not. You're a killer. You killed me and you'll kill everyone you love. Burn a hole in their chests before they even had a chance to blink."

"I wouldn't," he protested, weakly.

"There's a darkness inside of you. A monster just waiting to be let out." Ben let out a small laugh and pointed to the other end of the alley. "Don't worry, you'll get what you deserve."

A shadow fell over Stiles and Ben. His eyes widened in fear as a tall figure emerged from the street wearing a cowl and a long, black cape. The Batman.

Stiles's entire body trembled. "You've come for me, haven't you?"

He spread his arms in response, lifting his cape up like a giant pair of wings. In the darkness of his cape, Stiles heard high-pitched squeaking and hundreds of red eyes appeared from within. He barely had a chance to process what he was seeing before hundreds of bats rushed towards him in one black mass. They overcame him, scratching his cheeks and biting his exposed skin with their tiny fangs. Stiles tried to fight his way out but it was like he was drowning and trying to claw his way to a surface that he couldn't see. And his hands just got hotter and brighter.

"Stiles! You're losing control!"

Scott's voice echoed through the alley, but he couldn't see his friend through the horde of bats.

"Scott!" Stiles finally managed to yell out. "Help me! Somebody help me!"

"Grab my hand!" Another voice called out to him. He didn't know who it belonged to, but it felt warm. It felt safe. Stiles reached out a hand and felt the touch of another. Someone gripped his hand hard and pulled, yanking him away from the bats and into the light.

Stiles blinked as he tried to clear his hazy vision. The person who saved him came into focus.

"Dad."

He was standing right in front of him, wearing his GCPD uniform, and giving him a gentle smile.

"Dad!"

Stiles ran into his arms, knocking his dad back with the force of their collision. His dad hugged him tight, resting his chin on Stiles' head. "I'm here. Your safe."

"I miss you so much."

"I know you do." His hands cupped Stiles's face and gently pushed him back. "I'm proud of you. I always will be."

"You wouldn't be proud of me if you knew what I've done." He clenched his still glowing hands into tight fists. "I mess everything up. I was bad enough as a human. I've seen what this type of thing can do to people. I'm scared, Dad. I'm scared of what I'll become."

"There's not an evil bone in your body, son. You are good. Powers or not, you will still be good. Because that's who you are, Stiles."

"But you're not really here. How can I believe you?"

"Because you know it's true."

Stiles felt his dad cover his hands with his own, extinguishing the light like it had never been there to begin with.

"Stiles!"

Scott was running down the alley towards them but stopped short when he saw who Stiles was standing next to.

His dad gave him a knowing look and let go of his hands. Stiles, however, stayed rooted in place. "Don't leave me," he begged, his voice full of emotion.

"I won't. You and me are partners. Don't you ever forget it. Go, Scott's waiting."

Stiles nodded. He was right. They would see each other again. On the outside, where it would be real and not some figment of his imagination.

He jogged over to Scott and took one last look at his dad. His dad waved goodbye before disappearing into the shadows of the alley.

"Was that-?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, I'll tell you about it later. Let's get out of here, I've spent enough time in my head. It's fucked up, that's what it is."

Scott extended his claws. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Like before, he didn't feel when Scott dug his claws into the back of his neck. The scene in front of him shifted suddenly, and he found his body jerking backwards, that same feeling he got when he woke up too quickly from a dream.

Then he came crashing down and fell to his knees on the football field. He panted from the sheer exhaustion that overcame him.

"Finally! It took you long enough."

Stiles glanced up at Derek, who was rubbing his shoulder. "What's wrong with you?"

"You zapped me while you were under," Derek growled.

"I what?"

"Zapped me. With whatever that was. It threw me halfway across the field. Your lucky I don't return the favor."

There was some quip ready on the tip of his tongue, but he snapped his mouth shut instead. Guilt gnawed at him. Derek had only been trying to help and Stiles had hurt him.

Noticing the change in his mood, Derek's features softened. "Look, it was an accident. I'm fine, see." He pulled the collar of his shirt down. The skin was already knitting itself back together. "Already healed. You just need to control it."

"Find your anchor," Scott interjected. "You told me that when I couldn't control my wolf side. Allison is mine. I think your dad is yours. He's the reason you're doing all this. Try to call it up, focus on him."

"I'll try."

Stiles tried to conjure up the blue light by recalling its warmth and its power. Immediately, a blue flame flickered to life in his open right hand. Stiles stared at it mesmerized, his previous fear almost all but forgotten. When the flame jumped higher, Stiles thought of his dad, and it died down without much of a fight.

"That was-"

"-so cool," Scott finished with a huge grin.

"That was pretty cool," Derek admitted.

"Hey, Scott, does this mean I'm a wizard? I should try a spell. Wingardium lev-"

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek said, rolling his eyes.

Bruce didn't trust Jason. Or he didn't trust Jason around Dick. His older brother wasn't gullible, heck he would be the first person to call out someone's bullshit, but when it was about the people closest to him, his judgement could become cloudy. Tim couldn't blame him, he'd hid information about Stiles from Bruce and was now participating in an off-the-books Robin mission that could or could not get them in serious trouble. No, he was here to be the objective party, the only one who hadn't met Jason before his return.

As they walked through the mall, however, he couldn't find anything wrong with the guy. He was pretty ordinary. Barbara had tagged along to help him find clothes, and he didn't even complain when she dragged them into nearly every store.

Tim was actually starting to feel sorry for him. Dick had taken to regaling Jason with stories of the good ol' days, but Tim could see that he was struggling to remember the details.

Dick was in the middle of another story when they passed by the arcade. Tim stopped abruptly in front of the entrance. "Why don't we go into the arcade?" He asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He really didn't think his legs could carry him to any more stores. "As much as I like shopping, why don't we take a break?"

"Ah," Dick looked at Jason who perked up at the mention of a break, "sure. Why not? What do you think, Babs."

"I think it sounds like a great idea," Barbara said, taking the bags from Dick. "But you should play together. Think of it like brotherly-bonding time. I'll take these to the car." She gave Dick quick peck on the cheek and ran off into the throng of mall-goers.

Dick clapped his hands together, "Alright, who's ready to get beat at Zombie House 3."

"You're on. Last time I checked, Tim Drake was at the top of the list."

Dick turned to Jason. "How about you, Jason? Ready to make this squirt eat his words."

"Two against one, that doesn't seem fair," Jason said. But from the tone of his voice, he didn't seem too broken up about it.

Just when he thought one older brother was enough.

Tim raced them both to the machine. Since there were only two guns, they had to take turns, but he managed to nick the first one just as Jason got the second. He turned to Dick pretended to yawn into his hand. "You snooze, you lose."

Tim pushed the coins through the slot for Jason and himself and readied his gun. The zombies were fast to appear, tearing through the boards on the windows. He shot one after the other with precision. Behind the couch. Under the table. In the bedroom.

"You're really good at this," Jason commented.

"Lots of practice," Tim said. Practice with what, he didn't say. Tim diverted his eyes from the zombie horde to check Jason's score. It was only a couple points under his. "You're not so bad yourself."

Curious, Tim looked at how Jason was holding his gun. The way he held the gun, with both hands and at arm's length, it was like he was handling a real weapon. Where he would've learned to do that was a mystery. Bruce had forbidden the use of guns for any of the Robins.

Jason shrugged. "Instinct, I guess."

"Hey guys, I got us passes to indoor jousting," Dick said, appearing behind them. Tim had been so focused on the game he hadn't noticed him leave. "You and Jason can go first."

"I don't know…"

"I'm up for it," Jason said.

A joust match between Robin and former Robin. It could give him the chance to size up Jason and his other 'instincts'.

"Sure."

Dick led them to a back room in the arcade. There was an inflatable mat in the center of the room with two elevated circles for each of them to stand on. He handed them two cushiony headgears. "The person at the front said you had to wear these and told me to fill out a waiver. Something about liability issues. Nothing to worry about. We're going to play fair. Right, Tim?"

What he actually meant was no Robin moves. Okay, he could hold back. But not too much.

Tim put on the headgear and climbed up onto his stand. Jason did the same. Dick threw them their inflatable jousting batons. "You know the rules of the game. Knock the baton out of the other person's hands or knock your opponent off their stand. And no head shots people."

He held his baton with both hands in front of his body. When Dick yelled "go!", Tim made the first move, swinging the baton at Jason's midsection. In a way, it was like his bo staff, except for, of course, the big, inflatable ends.

Jason lurched backwards, wobbling at the edge as he tried to keep his balance. When he regained his footing, there was a malicious gleam in his eyes as he returned the strike.

Tim brought up his baton to block it, and the next few minutes consisted of them trading blow after blow, each time more aggressive than the last. Jason surprisingly managed to keep up with him despite his apparent memory loss.

And right when he thought Jason was aiming for his side, Tim felt the butt of the baton hit him in the face. The shock nearly knocked him from the stand. "Hey!"

"Sorry, forgot," Jason said with a smirk.

Tim turned to Dick to see if he was going to say anything about Jason's obvious foul, but Dick just shrugged. "It was an accident."

"It was on purpose!"

"I said I was sorry, Timmy."

He didn't know if it was the condescending way he said Timmy or if Stiles's impulsiveness was starting to rub off on him, but Tim jabbed Jason right back in the face. Jason fell off his stand and landed onto the mat with a dull thud.

Dick came running onto the mat, "Whoa, whoa! Calm down, Tim." He yanked the baton out of his hands. "Not cool."

"He hit me first," Tim tried to justify, despite knowing how childish it sounded.

Dick just shook his head disappointedly at him and then went to check on Jason, who was already back on his feet. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just scraped my elbow on the plastic," Jason said, rubbing his elbow. "It's no big deal. Tim just got overexcited, that's all."

Tim felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He hadn't gotten overexcited. Jason was the one who had been egging him on, but now he was the one who looked like an asshole.

"I wasn't overexcited," Tim muttered under his breath.

Dick shot him a sharp look that effectively shut him up. "I think it's time we go home. Babs is probably waiting in the car anyways."

They left the room in silence. Tim walked behind Jason, his eyes never leaving the back of his head. Something was off about Jason, that much he was certain about. And he would get to the bottom of it.

The scene in front of Gotham City courthouse could only be described as chaotic. There were GCPD officers running back and forth as they tried to secure the perimeter. SWAT was positioned by the front of the courthouse, helmets and guns at the ready. A police helicopter hovered overhead with its lights shining on the street below. And in the middle of the whole mess was Jim Gordon, yelling orders and looking more frazzled by the minute.

Bruce rang the commissioner to let him know he'd arrived. They'd agreed to this form of communication a while back. Bruce would ring, and Jim would know he was nearby.

On hearing his ringtone, Jim stopped what he was doing and immediately searched the shadows for Bruce. Once he spotted him, Jim quickly came over, shaking his head in frustration. "This is turning into a real nightmare, Batman."

"What happened?" Bruce asked.

Jim ran a hand through his hair. "Joker and his goons stormed in while Judge Andrews was having night court. Now he's holding the judge, two attorneys, a bailiff, and six other people hostage. SWAT can't go in until the hostages are clear. One wrong move and Joker can kill all of them."

"And what does he want?"

"Apparently, you," Jim said, exasperatedly. "I don't pretend to understand how the Joker thinks, but whatever he has planned, it has to be bad. Be careful in there. He's already shot two of my officers."

"I will, Jim. Just tell your men to wait for my signal," Bruce said, walking away from the commissioner and towards the courthouse. The officers stopped to stare when he passed by but parted to let him through. There was still distrust between him and the GCPD (he had a feeling there always would be), but when it came to the Joker, they were more than glad to let him deal with it.

Joker, after all, was not your ordinary criminal. Everything he did was to further his own sick game of stirring up chaos in Gotham, and Bruce fully knew that he was playing right into the Joker's hands. But with the courtroom sealed off, there was no other option. He'd play his game, and once the hostages were secure, Bruce would take him down.

He pushed the courtroom doors open and was met with three guns, each trained on his body. Joker was sitting in the judge's chair, feet propped up on the desk, and waving around the gavel. His face lit up with glee when he saw him. "Batsy! I thought you'd never make it!"

Bruce walked cautiously down the aisle, taking a full survey of the situation. The hostages were cowering in benches near the front. He counted eight, including the two attorneys. The bailiff and the judge were missing. "I'm here."

"And punctual as always. I knew I could count on you," the Joker said, taking his legs off the desk and standing up, giving Bruce a better look at his blood-coated hands.

"Where's the judge, Joker?"

"He's a little tied up at the moment I'm afraid."

Bruce could hear muffled yells coming from inside the judge's chambers. "And the bailiff?"

Joker wagged his finger in front of his face. "Ah, ah, ah. You're the one on trial here, not me."

He gritted his teeth. "Where's the bailiff? I won't ask again."

Joker motioned for him to come closer. "Why don't you take a look for yourself?"

Bruce pushed the swinging door and crossed into the judge's well. A glance to the left revealed what happened to the bailiff. He was lying on the ground, gunshot wound to the chest. Bruce rushed over to him and checked his pulse. Weak, but still there.

"What do you want, Joker?" He asked, picking himself off the ground.

"A trial! For all your crimes against me. Take your seat, Joker's court is now in session!"

Bruce didn't want to sit down, but he needed to know more of what Joker was playing at. He sat in the chair usually reserved for the defendant, and his hand hovered closely over his utility belt.

Joker produced some reading glasses from his suit pocket and pretended to skim through a paper lying on the judge's desk.

"Let's see. It says here...you know what, who the heck cares what it says!" He threw the paper over his shoulder. "I can list one off the top of my head. No sense of humor. Nothing at all! Do you know what it feels like when you tell someone a joke, a very good joke mind you, and they don't laugh. It hurts, Bats." Joker clutched his chest in mock agony. "It really does."

Bruce took another quick glance at the bailiff. There was still blood pooling on the floor. If he didn't hurry this up, the bailiff would be dead soon.

"Let me tell you what I think, Joker. You murder, you lie, you steal. You gassed a gala to satisfy your own greed. You're not funny. You're a homicidal maniac."

His rebuke only served to make Joker smile even wider. "Oh, Batsy. I'll let you in on a little secret." Joker leaned over the desk and looked directly into his eyes. "It wasn't me."

"What wasn't you? The gala? We fought. Don't deny it."

"But it wasn't. You see, it was my twin."

Even for Joker that excuse was weak. "You don't have a twin."

"I do now. You see, a man paid me a visit in Arkham. Wanted to trade. He would help me escape if I gave him my face. I said no way! Are you crazy? What a cuckoo idea!" Joker walked down from the judge's desk and into the well. "But then he explained his plan. That's when things got really interesting. He wanted to rob the Gotham Policeman's Gala. As me! He said, think about it. The Batman would come, and he would be clueless to the fact that it wasn't the real me. What a grand joke it would be. So, was it Bats, my man? Did I fool you?"

Bruce didn't let the surprise of Joker's revelation show on his face. As long as he'd known Joker, he never gave up the opportunity to brag about his crimes. For him to deny one, it might just be that Joker was telling the truth, which meant there was a new player in Gotham. Someone who could transform into another person. A shapeshifter, or as Enchantress put it, a faceless man. The man the Justice League was searching for.

He'd heard enough. Bruce pushed the table into Joker and threw an electrified batarang at the henchman standing guard by the hostages, knocking him unconscious. He threw the next batarang at the one by the door. But as he prepared to throw the last, he was tackled to the ground from behind. Bruce flipped his aggressor off him and handcuffed his hands together. "Stay down."

He looked back towards the Joker, but he was no longer underneath the table; the back door of the courtroom, however, was wide open.

"Commissioner, the hostages are secure. Joker's escaped through the back. I'm going after him."

Bruce didn't wait for Jim's response and rushed after Joker into the courthouse. The hallways were empty, and he pushed open door after door checking for any sign of the Joker. Once he reached the end of the corridor, he heard the familiar sound of marbles falling onto the ground. Bruce immediately shielded himself with his cape as they exploded. He could feel the heat through the fabric and was once again grateful that he had taken Alfred's advice to fireproof his uniform.

Bruce lowered his cape, coming face to face with Joker. "Enough games, Joker. It's over. You're going back to Arkham."

"Is it ever over? You and I both know that I'll just escape again and we'll continue our game of cat and mouse. You'll catch me, and then we'll start all over. It will never end because you won't let it. Because you need it as much as I do. It's why you won't break your little rule, why I'm still alive."

He was struck by a sudden memory at Joker's words. A conversation he had long ago with Jason.

"I don't know why you don't just kill him? "

"That's not how we do things, Jason." Bruce had told him. "When we cross that line, there is no going back. We do, and he wins."

He had followed that code. Every single time. Never once had he questioned it. Not until the day Jason had died. So his words filled him with burning rage because no, he didn't enjoy the clown's continued existence or that his choice had condemned Jason to death. And it was with that image of Jason dead that he attacked Joker, delivering a flurry of punches aimed at his face.

Joker just laughed through it all as if Bruce were proving him right, which made him hit harder as he unwound all of his pent up hate and anger.

"Batman, stop!" Jim yelled as he grabbed his arm. The commissioner was using all his strength to hold him back. "He's down!"

It was then that Bruce finally registered what he'd done. Looking down at his gloves, he saw a slick layer of blood covering them. Joker was lying on the floor, his face bloody and a motley shade of red and purple; he was still laughing, albeit weakly, like he found Bruce's suffering the most amusing thing in the world.

He yanked his arm from Jim's hold. "I'm fine." At his incredulous glance, he added, "Really, Jim."

"I'd believe that if I hadn't had to pull you off Joker. As much as he deserves it, there are rules Batman."

"It won't happen again," Bruce said. He shouldn't have let himself lose control of his emotions. It was the one thing he promised himself he'd never do. But with Jason back, he couldn't help but feel every regret he's had over the past three years. How Joker got to walk free while his son was dead.

"Make sure it doesn't. I don't know how I would have explained it if someone else had seen you." Jim pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his hand and shook his head in exasperation. "Whatever you got going on, you need to deal with it fast. I can't be worrying about you on top of everything else going on in the city. And I won't hesitate to end our partnership if you push me to it. Look, why don't you take a break for the night? Me and the boys can take it from here."

Bruce clenched his fists and gave Jim a curt nod. As much as Bruce didn't want to admit it, the commissioner had a point. He had gone too far tonight, and he needed to step away.

Jim radioed a few officers to pick up Joker, and Bruce turned to leave the courthouse. However, a faint whispering stopped him in his tracks. Glancing back, he saw Joker looking in his direction but not exactly at him.

"Can't take him from me. Impostor. The Bats's mine, mine, mine…"

"Someone please take this clown out of here," Jim said to his officers.

Impostor . The word suddenly reminded him of what Joker had said in the courtroom. As soon as he was out of the courthouse doors, he phoned Alfred on his headpiece.

"Hello, Master Bruce. I presume that the Joker has been dealt with since you are calling."

"He's been taken into custody. There's something I need you to do. Can I get the list of items stolen from the gala? And who donated them?" Bruce asked.

"Certainly, sir. But may I ask what this is about? I thought the matter was settled months ago."

"Call it a hunch."